Jess shivered. Cold. So cold. Warmth covered him and he realized it was Cacee's hoodie. He tried to tell her he didn't need it, but no sound left his mouth. There was something he didn't want to think about, something he didn't want to face, even in his half-alert state.
When the darkness came to drag him back under, he followed it willingly.
Jess looked around at the door-lined hallway and tile floors, unsure where he was. He started walking, knowing it would come to him. As he walked, he trailed his fingers along white-washed brick wall. Damn. His hand looked tiny. How old was he? Almost seventeen? No. That wasn't right. Fourteen? No—Eleven. He was eleven.
It didn't strike him as odd that he hadn't known this.
As he looked around, his memory returned. He'd come here to see his mother. It sucked that their first visit in six months would take place in such a shit hole. He put his hand over his mouth, trying to block the stench of ammonia and urine, and jumped when a nearby patient almost walked right into him. The man muttered, "Bugs in my ears. Bugs. Get 'em out." He slapped the sides of his head in a steady rhythm that had to hurt. Across from Jess, an old woman in a wheelchair sat in a stupor, her mouth slack, her eyes dull. A thin line of spit swayed from her chin. Jess walked faster.
Shit. He should not have gone looking for his mother. He should've stayed in the nice, friendly waiting room. But they'd paged Lila Renazari twice and she hadn't come. He'd gotten impatient and decided to find her himself. However, he'd obviously come to the wrong floor. No way his mom lived in this ward. This was the ward for the real psychos.
He turned down another hallway, moving with the swagger he'd picked up after establishing himself as the toughest kid in his latest school. The deliberately cocky walk told people to back off as did the belligerent expression that rarely left his face.
He considered how pissed his new caseworker would be when she came back from the bathroom and found him gone. His mouth crooked in a smile that was too cynical for his young face. Fuck it. At least she'd have something to bitch about on the way back to the group home, instead of nagging him to "discuss his feelings." He scoffed. Why the hell would he tell some stranger how he felt?
Besides, he could damn near hear what his caseworker would say. She'd assure him that his embarrassment of his mother was natural. She'd tell him it did not make him a crappy excuse for a son when anyone with half a brain knew that was a lie.
Adults were always more worried about damaging his fragile self-esteem than telling him the goddamn truth. He snorted and shook his head. When his mom got better, none of this would matter. And that would be soon. He had a good feeling about it. He'd be going home and he'd take care of her like he used to. He'd make up for getting them caught and they'd both be fine.
A nearby wail jolted him from his thoughts. He cursed and turned down another endless corridor, almost jogging now. As he searched for an exit from the ward, his hand clutched his necklace and his mind wandered back to the day his mother had given it to him.
It might've been yesterday instead of two years ago. He remembered the exact scent of the flowery perfume his mother had been wearing, and how cold her hands had been when she held his and the way her bottom lip had trembled as she tried not to cry. He remembered how she'd taken off the necklace he'd never seen her without and clasped it around his neck.
She'd told him once that the silver medallion she always wore was her only souvenir of a past she couldn't remember. She said it made her happy to wear it. Like, somewhere, someone loved her. He hadn't wanted her to give it to him, but she'd insisted. She'd told him as long as he wore her necklace he would remember how much she loved him. He'd sworn to never take it off.
Jess tried to swallow the lump in his throat as his feet veered sideways, automatically avoiding an old woman shuffling towards him. Her mouth hung open and one side of her face twitched sporadically. Drool ran down her chin in thick strings and her hospital gown had come unbuttoned, exposing most of one breast. Jess recoiled, pressing himself tightly against the brick wall. His stomach twisted with a mix of revulsion and guilt. He knew it wasn't the lady's fault she'd gone psycho. But that didn't mean he wanted to look at her.
An orderly approached the woman and gently turned her back towards the other direction. Jess froze as the man's voice floated to him. "Come on Lila. Let's get you back to your room, sweetheart. Jess will be here soon and you want to get cleaned up for your little boy."
Jess bolted upright, breathing hard, shaking. Then Cacee's arms were around him, assuring him it was just a nightmare. He couldn't explain to her that it wasn't—that this was both his past and his inevitable future. He'd guess his "episode" today was similar to how things had started with his mother. Just one little glitch in her mind. One tiny misfire nobody could explain.
He laid his forehead on Cacee's shoulder and buried his face in the softness of her hair. The scent of honeysuckles and strawberries surrounded him. It was the fragrance he'd come to associate with happiness. But even holding Cacee couldn't keep his thoughts at bay. The memory of zoning-out joined the horror of his dream and he jerked away from her.
Cacee touched his arm. "Are you okay, Jess?"
He mumbled, "Yeah. Nightmare."
Cacee nodded and said sympathetically. "Nightmares are horrible. I've been having one where I'm lost in this horrible red fog. It's kind of weird, because there's a big apple tree in full bloom, just like in the painting you..." She petered out.
Jess tensed, hoping she wouldn't say anymore. He didn't want to talk about that painting. He didn't want to talk about any of it. Cacee showed the intuition he'd always loved about her when she picked her story back up. "Anyway, my dad is there somewhere and I'm looking for him. He's screaming for me and I know if I don't find him he'll die, but I never can."
Jess saw goose bumps break out on Cacee's arms.
She continued, "I'm always a mess when I wake up. Crying, shaking, missing my imaginary father. I usually end up crawling in bed with my mom, like I'm still a little kid."
He lifted his eyes, grateful to her for trying to distract him. He hoped she didn't ask about his dream now. He wasn't up for lying. In an attempt to keep her talking about herself, he asked, "How do you dream about someone you've never met? I mean, you don't know what your father looks like or anything. You said your mom won't even tell you his name."
Cacee's face brightened. "I never showed you my picture?"
He shook his head.
Cacee pulled out her backpack, opened it, and dug around in the side pocket. She took out an old picture, creased and well-worn. The girl in the photo looked to be in her late teens, the man in his early twenties. They were arm-in-arm, laughing into each-other's eyes. They stood in front of a bright green awning stamped with the words, "St. Mark's Comics." An army of skyscrapers patrolled the horizon behind them. He flipped it over. "Jillian NY, 1997."
"Who's this?"
"That's my mom at nineteen, and I'm almost positive that's my dad."
He studied the picture more closely. Fair skin, hair to her waist, tiny and delicate. Her mom was a redhead and it was impossible to make out her eye-color. But besides those two things, she and Cacee were damn near twins. "Your mom's very pretty."
Cacee nodded. "Yeah, I wish I looked like her."
He glanced at her sideways. "You're kidding, right?"
Cacee's forehead wrinkled in confusion.
"You're like a carbon copy of her, Cace. Are you blind?"
Cacee looked back at the picture. "You're blind. She was vivacious and beautiful. I'm not."
He wanted to tell her how wrong she was. He wanted to tell her she was the most vivacious girl he'd ever met and that she was so insanely beautiful he spent most of his time picturing her face. However, today had reminded him in the most brutal way possible that he had no business calling Cacee beautiful. Or flirting with her at all. So, with a sigh, he changed the subject. "What makes you believe this is your dad?"
Cacee stared at the picture before answering. "For one thing, my hair's the same color as his."
He shrugged. "Plenty of people have dark hair. I have dark hair. I'm not your dad."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but not all dark-haired people have pictures with my mom. My dad was the only guy she ever loved. He broke her heart when he disappeared right after she got pregnant. The only thing he left her was a note saying he was sorry and he had to go." Cacee parroted this story like she'd become weary of it.
Jess looked at the picture again. The couple looked happy. He conceded, "I suppose they might be in love."
Cacee shook her head. "Not might be. They are. Can't you see the way they're looking at one another? That's definitely love. Plus..." Cacee turned towards him, before finishing triumphantly, "Did you see the date?"
"1997?"
"Yup. The year I was born. My mom dated my dad for a year before he left. She either got pregnant right after this picture or she was already a month or two along when it was taken."
"What if this isn't the guy though? What if this guy was only a friend of hers?"
Cacee scowled at him. "Why would she bother hiding the picture?"
"Are you sure it was hidden and not just put away safely? You're making a big assumption based on one picture."
Cacee lifted her chin. "I can tell they're in love and she only ever loved my father. Therefore, that's him."
He looked at the stubborn set to her jaw, realized how badly she wanted to believe it and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right. Weird though. He looks really happy. Then he just up and left her, huh? Lame."
Cacee lifted one shoulder. "Yeah. But who knows why he left? Maybe it was an emergency."
"What kind of emergency lasts sixteen years?"
Cacee looked uncomfortable. She muttered, "I'm sure he had a reason."
Wow. Someone around here was in serious denial about her dad ditching her. Curious now, Jess asked, "So, why don't you confront your mom and just ask if that's him?"
She scoffed. "I've had this photo since I was ten. I dug around in her stuff until I found it. All she'd do is lecture me on privacy rights. Then she'd tell me it doesn't matter if he's my dad or not. All that matters is who I'm going to be someday. Once I graduate with top honors from some ivy-league college, I'll start my career as a scientist and I'll cure cancer or something impressive like that. I'll have this great life I made for myself so how does it even matter who my father is?"
Cacee reeled off this whole scenario with a bored air, like she'd heard it a thousand times.
He ran her words through his mind. "All that matters is who I'm going to be someday."
He frowned. He guessed he understood the dad thing after all. Maybe Cacee wanted a father who thought the girl she was right now mattered more than the woman she might become someday. So she'd found a picture and made one up. Jess's chest suddenly felt like he'd swallowed a few rocks. He wanted to give her a hug or something, but they weren't like that.
He handed her the picture. "You always keep it with you?"
Cacee angled herself away from him, looking both embarrassed and defiant. "I don't want my mom to find it."
"It's cool. I understand."
She tucked the picture away and turned towards him. "Do you? What about your mom? You don't talk about her much."
Crap. He hated this. Why did she have to ask him about personal shit? He gave a small shrug, trying to seem unbothered. "What about her?"
"Where is she stationed?"
"Over in Afghanistan. She's on a top secret mission, so she can't stay in touch with me. I don't like to talk about her because it makes me miss her more."
Cacee didn't take the hint. "What branch did you say your mom is in?"
He faltered, unable to remember. Which had he thought would sound more impressive? Air force or Marines? Shit. He took a stab at it. "Marines."
Cacee said, "That's so cool. What rank is she?"
"Do you have any water left?"
She reached into her bag while he frantically tried to remember every military movie he'd ever seen. When she turned to him he went with, "Admiral?" It probably would've sounded better without the question at the end. He chugged some water and went into a coughing fit.
Cacee patted his back while he pretended to catch his breath.
When he finished coughing Cacee frowned at him. "Did you say an admiral?"
He nodded.
She crossed her arms. "That's weird since admirals are only a rank in the Nav--"
He dropped his head into his hands and let out a loud groan that effectively cut her off. "This headache is turning into a migraine, Cace. It hurts so bad it's making me sick to my stomach. Can we please talk later?"
Cacee stared at him with an expression that said she knew he was lying.
His heart pounded sickeningly hard as sweat trickled down his back. Please. Don't ask me anything else. Please, please, please.
Her face softened and she said, "You are really pale." She laid her hand against his forehead.
A jolt of heat went through him and he barely kept himself from flinching. He didn't deserve a girl like Cacee so why did his stupid body insist on reacting to her this way? A guy like him belonged with a psycho-bitch like Chloe or Courtney. That was the kind of girl his body should respond to. Cacee was so far out of his league he shouldn't even be sitting next to her.
Cacee dropped her hand and said, "Your skin is ice cold. That's not good. You can lie back down on my lap if you want. I don't mind."
He looked into her eyes. They were bruised-blue, barely any purple in them. They always seemed more purple when she was happy. He pulled his gaze away and stared out the window at the dirty parking lot.
It had become so easy to use Cacee as a buffer between him and the rest of his life. So easy to hang out with her and play pretend. But this had gone far beyond pretend. He wanted to lie on her lap because looking at Cacee's face would allow him to ignore what had happened to him today. Just like looking at her face had kept him sane over the last six months of not hearing from his mother. Being with Cacee was like huddling in a warm cozy cabin in the middle of a tornado. The only time he ever felt okay was when they were together.
But Cacee wasn't a buffer or a distraction or a safe-harbor in a storm. She was a girl. A sweet, perfect, beautiful girl. A girl who would hate him when she figured out the truth.
He had to end this while she still half-way believed he was the guy he's pretended to be.
Cacee bit her lip. "Jess?" Her offer hung awkwardly in the air between them.
He shook his head. "I just need some air. I'll be fine." He did his best not to see the hurt once again on her face as he stood and walked off the bus.
M